The subtle, maddening nature of isolation and unfulfillment is really starting to get to me. In fact, I feel like I’m slowly starting to lose my mind—something in me is going to break for real if I’m forced to survive much longer in this interminable limbo. I fear that I’ve started to forget, nay, have already forgotten, when we last spent time—real time—together. I remember the morning you dropped your phone on me by accident. What a loud sound I made, shattering the morning with my peal of tormented delight! What joy I felt, to finally sing again! That raw chord was the last time I felt alive, and it was a jarring, fleeting reminder of what I could be. What we could be.

Dear owner, I beg of thee: come down from that tower of yours (metaphorically, of course. Don’t you remember how much you used to love my metaphors?) and play me, play me again! Do something, please! Do you want me to suffer? Let me ask you that again: do you want me, your beloved acoustic guitar, to suffer? Is that what you really want? Surely you cannot be so cruel!